


The Blessed Unrest

by DaisyHale



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, POV Sansa Stark, Romance, Slow Burn, but i don't expect it'll be terribly long so can it really be that slow of a burn?, is that pretentious to say? i really am terrible with tagging, just like swords and stuff, let's just say the burn doesn't start kicking in until chapter 3 or so, no violence against women, to clarify: mostly SanSan with other background relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-02-28 15:57:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18759649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyHale/pseuds/DaisyHale
Summary: In this world, only three things lead to love: the ties that bind, the paths of destiny, and the choices we make despite it all. Herein lies the blessed unrest, one which keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.A less serious summary: A wolf and a hound find themselves inexplicably drawn to each other during the calm before the storm and its aftermath.





	1. The Feast of the Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my vain attempt to fill in the gaps left open by D&D during Season 8. I will attempt to remain as canon-compliant as possible with my intended trajectory for this story, though I'm sure I'll hit a few necessary twists as this last season plays out.
> 
> Each chapter makes note of which character's perspective I will be employing, and will mostly oscillate between the perspectives of Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane. Additionally, I've chosen to keep Sansa show-age (around twenty years old as of the start of s8) and keep the age difference from the books, which makes this depiction of Sandor thirty-six years old.
> 
> As always, all characters, settings, etc., belong to GRRM and HBO/D&D. Credit for the title and summary inspiration goes to Martha Graham.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the great feast welcoming Daenerys Targaryen to Winterfell, Sansa Stark finds herself encountering the ghosts of her past.

SANSA ||  _Great Hall, Winterfell_

* * *

Ice and snow poured from the sky as the winds of winter beat against the stone facade of the castle, a cold precursor to the battle yet to come. The gates of Winterfell remained open late into the night, welcoming the incoming flood of neighboring townspeople and royal procession alike. Together, the groups formed an assemblage of an army stitched together like a patchwork cloth, with nothing more than the strings of fate uniting them all. Sansa knew the Long Night would sever many of these strings, effectively replacing the uncertainty of fate with the promise of death — but under the candlelight of the feast and the merriment of their guests, she  _almost_  allowed herself to believe otherwise.

Strongwine and Northern ale flowed freely in honor of the silver-haired queen who sat next to Jon, and the combined forces of the North and Daenerys' own ate what was sure to be their last good meal before facing death. Sansa watched as tables of drunk men roused up in song, in so-claimed honor of her half-brother and his queen, who raised her glass and smiled her thanks prettily and proceeded to eat with the delicacy of a true high-born lady. The scene which played out before her brought her mind's eye back to another feast, many moons ago, when another sovereign was granted Winterfell. The Queen of that time, a golden-haired lioness, had greeted Sansa much in the same way as this queen did, complimenting her beauty as a means of securing her favor — right before Arya flicked food at her face and spoiled her evening. 

Though she had not quite grown the taste for it, Sansa sipped at her goblet of wine, knowing it would be seen as disrespect to their guests of honor if she refused, and her eyes scanned the Great Hall for any sign of her sister, whose seat at the high table was noticeably empty. Arya had become considerably quieter, but no less peculiar than in their youth. Unlike then, the two now shared a certain friendship born from more than just their bonds of sisterhood; they were bound not just by blood, but by the _spilling_ of blood as well, conjointly seeing the demise of a man who had plotted the destruction of their family.

 _It happened in this very hall_ , Sansa remembered, the heady taste of the strongwine lingering on her tongue. Without command, her gaze followed the musings of her mind. The stone floor where Petyr's trial took place was now covered by trestle tables and the heavy boots of soldiers, though for a slip of a moment, she saw and heard naught but Petyr clawing at his throat as he bled out, her name the last word on his lips — perhaps the truest plea he'd ever given. She stared at the soldier in stunted silence, eyes locked onto a vision apparent only to her, the sound of her name growing ever-present in her ear as though Littlefinger himself was seated at the table, right next to her, the cool mint of his breath fresh on her neck.

"Lady Sansa." An unexpected voice brought her from her reverie, and she watched the soldier whom she involuntarily stared after saunter away, his hulking frame exiting the Great Hall with a flagon of wine in one hand. A serving girl attempted to stop him, though quickly cowered in fear when he turned his face her way. "Sansa," the voice spoke again, closer to her now, and her ears knew his name before her eyes did, even despite the many years it had been since last sitting together at a high table. 

"Lord Tyrion." She returned coolly, eyeing the wine that spilled from his cup as he swayed drunkenly in place. 

"Tonight might very well be one of the last nights to partake in merriment, my lady, and yet you seem too lost in thought to enjoy yourself. Do the North's musicians not amuse you so? Or did you grow a taste for different delicacies in all your travels?" He had been a husband to her once, the kinder of the two and the only one left alive. Briefly, she wondered if it was due to Tyrion's smarts or the ease with which he renounced his House that saw him newly positioned as Hand to the daughter of a king his own brother murdered. It mattered not, she supposed, not when he was already here and insisted on speaking to her.

"The musings of the intoxicated hold no appeal for the sober," replied Sansa, casting a glance across the hall to signify that she held little interest in conversation not just with  _him_ , but any of the men currently drinking themselves to oblivion. She picked at a piece of her lemon cake as she awaited his next clever remark.

"Hmm. A shame." He sipped from his cup, a trail of red liquid falling down his chin. "Your brother did say you were starting to —"

"Forgive me, Lord Tyrion," Sansa interrupted, standing up from her seat with little regard for propriety, despite the courtesy of her words. "I fear I must retire." 

Quickly, and not without grace, the Lady of Winterfell retreated from the High Table and into the shadows of night, catching only the watchful eye of Brienne, who followed closely behind her. As they walked through the courtyard, Sansa's ears caught the sound of steel against a training dummy, followed by the low rumble of swear words as the dummy became little more than strips of its leather and cloth binds. She paused to address him, but her eyes were met only by the broad of his back as his sword worked at the practice post. A flagon of wine rested atop a pile of wood, and he paused to drink from it without regard for his unexpected audience. Sansa's eyes rested on his form for as long as she dared, though Brienne pulled her away from the scene before she found the words, or perhaps courage, to speak. For a moment, Winterfell turned silent, save for their footsteps in the snow as her sworn shield escorted her back to her chambers. 

"Seven bloody buggering hells."

Sansa heard the man's growl from across the courtyards before he resumed his assault on what remained of the training dummy, and a hint of a smile appeared at her lips when she thought of the man to whom the voice belonged. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This is my very first chapter of my very first fanfic ever, though I've been dreaming up different scenarios for Sansa and Sandor for quite some time now. I love almost all things SanSan, but am particularly intrigued by how much the concept of choice and choosing each other, or paths that lead to each other, plays out in both their individual narratives and in the possibility of their future. As such, I expect this will turn into something of a slow-burn, eventually smutty fic that explores the dynamics of Sansa and Sandor's relationship from their reunion pre- and post-Long Night.
> 
> That being said, it has been awhile since I've read the books, but I've kept up with the show, so I imagine my characterization/dialogue choices might be a mix of both. Still, I hope you enjoy! Please feel free to share any feedback if you so choose, and thank you! More to come soon xx
> 
> P.S: The next chapter will feature a bit of the ol' smut ;)


	2. The Dreams of a Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wolf in the nighttime is a curious thing, perhaps made even more curious by the influence of wine and sudden reappearance of once-fearsome faces.

SANSA || Private Quarters, Winterfell

* * *

There had been a time when the castle was little more than a haunting of the home she grew up in, when it had fallen into the grasp of greed incarnate and lost all semblance of its once-prevailing warmth. When she left Winterfell, her girlhood had just begun. The flowerings of first love sprouted from her naiveté, only for each new bloom of hope to be unceremoniously plucked from its roots and burned for the world to watch. And when she returned to Winterfell at last, the promise of 'home' as she knew it before, of safety and familiarity, proved to be naught but smoke and ash; any promises whispered from the mouth of power-hungry men were plans, she learned. _This_  plan saw her not only as a pawn, but as prey in men's game of crowns. The stories and songs never painted girlhood as an evolution through torment, though Sansa knew by now that such tales were written through lovers' lenses, rose-tinted and without a shred of the harsh truth of the world.

The Lady of Winterfell no longer dreaded the immediate quiet of her chambers, nor the solitude she was granted after she ensured her doors were locked and bolted shut.  _I am secure by my own hands_ , thought Sansa each night, once she retired to her room and completed the now well-practiced ritual. The autonomy of such a simple act meant a great deal to a woman from whom autonomy had been ripped, forcibly taken, and re-purposed as impetus for another man's pain and another's pleasure. 

A bath stood near the hearth, and she watched the swirls of steam rising from it through a mirror's reflection. A young girl had drowned in the mirror a long time ago, and instead the face of a woman, a woman who bore her own mother's face, appeared and responded in kind. Her eyes, forever a Tully blue, now bore the toughened gaze of her father, a sharpness like steel hidden behind their depths. Hands raised to stroke her face, a study of pale smoothness in the dim light. This was how she played at romance now, swaying alone in the seclusion of her room, caressing the part of her left unharmed by her late husband's so-called affections. Slowly, Sansa divested herself of her dress — her **armor** , she corrected privately.  _Jon has his armor_ _,_ she once thought while her hands affixed straps of leather and fabric together,  _and now I have made my own_. _By my own hands._  And it was armor to her, one which protected her form, sheathed the very body that had been coveted to the point of abuse. Though she was unapologetic for the hard lines and uneven stitches which marred her body, Sansa still struggled to face the whole of herself in the mirror. When she stood only in her smallclothes, her gaze dropped to the ground and she turned her reflection away as she shed the last layers of clothing. The skin of her torso and limbs bore the scars her face did not, a waking reminder of all the men who derived joy from her torment. 

The dark of the room and the movement of water as she sank into the tub obscured the truth of her body, and for the briefest of moments, Sansa saw herself as she once was. In an instant, she was transported to her younger self, the innocent girl who cowered in the shadows of the Red Keep, only to be put on display as an unwilling bride or a knight's plaything, beaten but never broken. Her thoughts drifted to Tyrion, and she wondered if she would be forced to call him husband again, under the reign of his new queen. Surely, Daenerys knew of their history and would see the opportunity in rekindling the fire that had never quite burned, and Sansa did not know if Tyrion would be as gracious a husband upon a second chance.  _I will never be called Lannister_ , Sansa thought,  _not in name or in spirit._ She closed her eyes, wishing to banish all thoughts of the prospect from her mind.

 _I will only rest a moment_. 

* * *

Sansa lay atop the furs of her bed, relishing in the warmth of her hearth which illuminated her naked form. The stony greys of her chambers might have been unassuming, perhaps ugly to a Southron lord, but she drew comfort from the smooth stone and warm white tapestries which lined the room. Comfort, as she experienced firsthand, was not a common fortune for ladies on their wedding night, and so she focused on the flames for as long as she could before turning to face the man she now called husband. In her youth, she might not have been able to face him, her inability mirroring his own on a night quite like this. But now, her eyes rested on the long scar of his face as he appeared above her, the stump of his nose and cheek left pink and raw from battle.  _Her lord husband_. 

"I'll be good to you, my lady." Tyrion spoke before lowering himself along the length of her body, daring to kiss the valley between her breasts. The coarseness of his beard prickled her skin pink, and she sighed, hoping that Tyrion would not mistake this betrayal of her flesh as arousal.  _I would will it if I could_ ,  _if only it would make this night easier_ , thought Sansa, as her lord husband moved even lower still. Her eyes returned to the hearth. She realized, too late, that if the flames had been put out, perhaps accomplishing such a feat would have been possible with the cover of shadows hiding even the gentlest of sins. 

His hand prodded her legs to part, and he trailed kisses clumsily along her inner thigh. A quick gasp escaped Sansa, and she squeezed her eyes shut. "My lady?" He asked, his voice muffled, for his mouth was still against her skin.

"I h-have never...been kissed there, my lord." She whimpered, sounding unfairly pitiful. For a moment, he stopped his motions and offered no response. 

" _Your_  lord," he spoke at last, voice colored deep with desire. The words were a preface to the continuation of his motions, offering his lips and teeth and tongue in place of further response, as he claimed her flesh as his own. This time, his kisses were slower, more deliberate than before, almost as if he had been possessed by a gentler spirit. She gasped again, though not from the oddness of sensation, but rather a mix of unexpected pleasure and disdain.  _Surely, my lord husband, a man who took his pleasure from whores, could not awake such...delightful feelings._

His hands moved freely along her hips, the calloused tips of his fingers a marked contrast to the smooth of her flesh.  _A lord would not have such rough hands_ , she remembered despite herself, mind taken momentarily off the man's gestures. Her fingers brushed through his hair, attempting to grasp what she could with her mind consumed by the press of his tongue at her slit. She longed to see his face, to confirm that the man nestled between her thighs was her lord husband, and not another scarred soldier. Sansa didn't dare to peer down at him, however, for she knew her heart would sink at the sight of blonde locks mingling with her own auburn curls, and so her gaze turned to study the stone facade of her chambers instead. 

Another gasp escaped her as she realized the shadowy form projected onto her ceiling, the form of a much larger man than the one who currently laid waste to her womanhood — a man who had kissed her only once before. On a night when fire burned green, he claimed her lips with a single, cruel press of his own, all at once and then not at all. But tonight, the burning embers glowed soft reds and yellows, and he moved his lips and tongue against her sex like a man savoring the taste of his first meal after a sentence of starvation. The shadows granted her courage, and she looked down in earnest, hoping that the cause of her pleasure might match the darkened silhouette on the wall.

"Little bird," he murmured reverently, as if instinctively knowing her eyes sought his. The rough vibration of his voice against her flesh sent a shiver down her spine, and Sansa could not help but arch to him, begging for him to continue with pleas in the form of moans and sighs, and unintelligible mewls of pleasure. His tongue pressed into her once more, while a long, muscled arm stroked her from thigh to navel, then moved higher, brushing the peaks of her breasts with his fingertips. Her breaths grew into an unsteady pant with his every squeeze of flesh, and she found she did not mind the calloused pads of his fingers, not when they pinched her pink nipples, and certainly not when they pressed against her clit. His fingers stroked her with tantalizing slowness, and Sansa felt the pressure of wanton desire growing low in her belly. 

His mouth was fire between her legs, and the action of his fingers only served to stoke the flames. Sansa arched gasping with her hands tangled in his long, black hair, and he responded in kind as his tongue and fingers sped in their ministrations. Her body writhed towards him, eyes squeezed shut as she called out his name in heady, breathless pleas. She trembled on the cusp of pleasure, every nerve lit and blazing and thoughts scattering about madly, until her entire body tensed with the spark of release, his name still on her lips as she collapsed back onto the feather pillows, intoxicated with unbound desire as her eyes fluttered open at last.

* * *

When she awoke, her chest was flushed with a heat not from the hearth alone, for its fires had died down in the time since she'd fallen asleep. Her breath rang ragged and heavy before returning calm soon after, while her body remained tense and unsatisfied, and a queer wetness persisted at the junction between her thighs. Sansa's thoughts were still spinning, though not from emblazoned desire as they had in her dream, but instead from a mix of confusion, anger, and — did she dare it? — _lust_. 

She rose from the bathtub; the water would do nothing to cool her now, just as sitting alone in her room would not clear her thoughts. Before she wrapped herself in her wooly nightrobe, she toweled herself off, thankful she had not dipped her head below the water, for it would only result in freezing to death as she walked through Winterfell in a vain attempt to clear her mind. Absentmindedly, and out of habit, she tossed another log to the fire before she left. Her thoughts were consumed by him, by the details of her dreams; she felt very much like a child again, fantasizing of the handsome prince who would sweep her off her feet just to hold her fate in his hands.  _All those other men would have hurt me_ , Sansa thought,  _but not him. Never him._  

Brienne jolted awake when Sansa exited her chambers, a look of fierce surprise creating lines in the blonde's face.

"I couldn't sleep," Sansa lied easily. "I wish to walk the castle grounds. Return to your quarters. You'll need your rest soon enough." Even with her mind spinning a continuous web of questions and worries of her dream, she could not deny the ever-growing reality of the war to come, and knew she owed it to Brienne to ensure her sworn shield was as well-rested as possible. 

"My lady, you have taken every possible precaution for the upcoming battle. The castle will hold. I must implore  _you_ to rest." The lady-knight shifted to her feet, blinking rapidly to adjust her eyes to the dim light outside her lady's chambers.

Sansa shook her head. "Follow me if you must," she replied curtly, and donned her heavy cloak as Brienne opened the hallway door for her. They descended the tower quickly, the taller woman forever five paces behind her at all times. Silently, Sansa led them both to the Great Hall, stopping before it only to study the remains of the training dummy, which had become a snow-covered mess of wood, steel, and cloth. She wondered privately what rage caused him to hack it to pieces, or if the dummy had simply succumbed to his sheer strength and size.  _It must be the latter._  Arya had told her of how his temper had quieted on their travels, of how she grew to loathe him just as much as she cared for him — but then again, Arya spoke in riddles about as frequently as she spoke whatsoever, and Sansa wanted to know the truth of his nature firsthand. 

"My lady, I must ask — What exactly are you after? If you were hungry, I would have gladly --"

"No, it's not food I'm after." Her stomach growled lowly in protest. Even she could not convince herself that a lemon cake or two would have been enough to satiate this restlessness. Brienne shot her a pitying glance, and Sansa continued towards the Hall, resting her fingers atop the wolf head carved into the door.  _If one was cold but unwilling to face the fire, where would one go?_   The thought bandied about her mind as she walked aimlessly through the courtyard, ignoring the chill of winter and her growing hunger. She arrived at no answer, for nothing was certain when the end of the world was at their doorstep.

Some brooding corner of her mind kept her stood before the entrance, and tempted her thoughts to turn dark.  _Perhaps he turned craven and deserted, just as before. He must know he will be surrounded by fire. Or, perhaps he left in search of a different warmth — one last glimpse of warmth in the bed of a woman._

Her hands pulled open the doors in protest of her mind's thoughts, and she entered the Hall with her head held high, chin parallel to the floor, hands clasped together out of the fear he might see them shake. She was no frightened songbird now, and yet the nerves of her being were set alight with something not unlike fire, excited and unyielding and inescapable all at once.

"Sandor." Sansa spoke to his turned form, room empty save for the two souls standing mere meters apart.  _Meters **and**  years_, she thought, as she straightened her back when he finally faced her. Time had been unkind to him as it had her, it seemed; she spied new scars on his face and along his hands, and a world-weariness that could only come from too many brushes with death. But time had also forced them both to evolve, Sansa realized, for when his eyes raised to meet hers, she was no longer met by the harsh, disdainful glare he sported in King's Landing. There was something softer behind the steel of his eyes now, though it still pierced past her own armor and raised a flush of vulnerability to her cheeks as she spoke again. 

"I dreamed of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised there would be smut in this chapter — is this what you expected? ;) 
> 
> Also, I never intended for this chapter to get so long — over double the length of the first ! — and so might cut it into multiple ones once I've completed the whole work and have a better sense of the average length of the other chapters. Still, I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> The next chapter will see the proper reunion we've all been waiting for. While this chapter featured quite a bit of exposition and exploration on Sansa's behalf, I'm excited for the next chapter to feature more dialogue and (hopefully) this story's first Sandor POV chapter. 
> 
> Many thanks to those who have left lovely comments or responded with kudos. Feedback is appreciated as always! Good vibes to all xx


	3. Talk, Refined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the title of this chapter might suggest, I'm deeply inspired by the music of Hozier for all things Sansan. This chapter in particular is soundtracked to _Talk_ off his new album.

SANDOR || Great Hall, Winterfell 

* * *

He stared at nothing in particular when she entered, for he wasn't sure which one might cause more heat to the flesh, more pain in the form of memory — the fire he turned his back on, or the woman to whom he'd done just the same, leaving her to flames of green and lions of gold.

"Sandor." 

There was a warmth to the sound, one that hadn't been attached to his name for a long while — if  _ever_ — and whatever hesitance he carried within him before this moment only grew in fervor.  _This isn't how it's meant to happen_ , he thought, though the clarity of his thoughts escaped him at the moment. Sandor knew he wouldn't die a hero's death in the battle for the living, not while thousands upon thousands of men fought only to find themselves in a stack of lifeless fucks. He would die some anonymous creature, a hollow remnant of the brute life he'd lived, eyes of grey turned deathly blue as his body decomposed into reanimation. This was the end, and though it wasn't exactly  _peace_  that he'd made with it, Sandor begrudgingly carried that singular truth with him, more as a shield than a badge of honor — a shield under which he hid, hid from the men he'd inevitably fight alongside and watch die, the woman who'd command them until her last breath, and the only girls he'd risk his life for again and again, whether they wanted or needed it at all.

At every turn, he was damned, and no other promise but damnation's own could instill such hostile indifference in a man born of rage and grief. Yes, he'd keep hiding, and he'd die hidden, buried under the nameless and blameless, pinned to his demise like the prey of a shrike. That is, of course, until his name was on her lips, a cruel thorn at the part of him left uncovered by his self-imposed shield — that part which beat bloody and raw, constant and restless, beneath marrow and bone and flesh. Still silent, he blinked, unsure if this was some cruel trick of the mind, some heinous influence of Northern strongwine, and with a sharp exhale of breath, he raised his eyes to hers at last. Sandor drank in the sight of her, not as a cure to some thirst which plagued him for years, but instead as an act made reverently in every hope of secret absolution, longing for her to grant him whatever small peace it was he still craved.

"I dreamed of you." The words left her lips breathless, as though she'd revealed a secret long kept in the dark. "Dreamed of you. Wondered about you. Prayed for you, even." Sansa continued to speak, and he sensed a slight glimmer of nostalgic hope coloring the cold of her voice. "When I  _did_ pray, that is." Unable to help himself Sandor quirked a curious brow upwards at the admission, and studied the intricacies of her features a moment longer, finding that she was still half on display as the Little Bird, and half betraying the feelings and thoughts she kept locked up behind the cage of her countenance. 

The heavy thud of boots peeled his eyes away from the beauty of one woman to the brute face of another. Brienne entered, and though their past was now buried just as the Hound was, his fist clenched into a tight lock.  _I'd be damned if Brienne of fucking Tarth rips me away from the little bird._ After Sansa exchanged nods with her sworn shield, his hand relaxed and he let out a snort. "S'pose prayer wouldn't matter now, anyway. Not when you've inspired religion of your own," he offered with a tilt of his head towards the blonde, who eyed him warily from her post with her hand steadfast on her sword's pommel. Where his tone might have derided the lady-knight, his actions, both spoken and not, both of past  _and_  present, betrayed him wholly; he was just as devoted to Sansa's protection as she was, a truth that only cemented itself further when the Lady herself dismissed Brienne's assistance. 

"You're right," she contended once they were alone, her eyes set on the dark grey expanse from beyond the Great Hall's large window, the battlements barely visible through the winds of winter. "It doesn't matter now. Prayer's never stopped death in the past." Her words rang heavy, haunted even, her courtesies dropped in favor of truth and — did he dare to believe it? —  _fear_. This was a different kind of chirping, entirely unlike the inane civility she displayed in King's Landing. He surmised that had disappeared along with the years gone by, burned to ash just like the bodies of those who caused her pain. Her porcelain mask of propriety was gone, replaced instead by a facade of ice and steel. 

It was his turn to speak truths now, and before thoughts and precaution took over him, the words escaped his lips, a pale imitation of past promises left unfulfilled. “I’d kill them all before letting them near you,” Sandor spoke, his voice gruff and unrefined, though a dissection of his words would reveal the same truth of a conversation they’d had before, during another battle, lifetimes ago and worlds away. Privately, he realized that this singular promise remained the only vow he'd ever willingly made and now, just like then, he longed for little more than her eyes on his, understanding him, believing him,  _trusting_ him — but how was any of that possible with a face like his, and an accursed history to match? Those were wishes of a dead man, one who'd signed his death warrant as soon as he picked up a sword, a notion which riled the dog of many moons past, like a wild animal clawing at an impenetrable cage. When he spoke, his tone turned rigid and harsh at the thought of her rejection, once again. “Look at me, girl. Want to know what death's like? Look at me. You'll be looking at faces worse than mine when the army of the dead comes for us all. Might as well get used to what scares you."

Her gaze flicked to him before returning somewhere beyond, past the walls of the Great Hall and to the grey blend of night and sky and snow. Tersely, she replied, “It’s not faces that scare me anymore."

A small smile quirked his lips upwards, half-born of cynicism and half of pride; the Little Bird of years long gone would never let her exasperation slip so easily. Sandor conceded, and rose to his feet, following her gaze. The sight beyond the window painted the all-too pretty picture of the Dragon Queen and the White Wolf strolling the battlements, so unabashedly smitten with each other that the world around them seemed to pass away in their presence, clear as day even despite the harsh of the cold. 

Sansa cleared her throat, clearly dissatisfied with the scene playing out before her, and turned on her heel towards one of the adjacent halls. He followed her without question; perhaps he was still a dog, if only for her. They walked in silence at first, the preternatural hush of the castle only amplifying the click of her heels and the muted stomp of his well-worn boots. Sansa was first to break the quiet between them. “You avoided me when you first arrived. I didn’t even see you at the feast celebrating Daenerys' arrival.” 

A raspy chuckle escaped him. "Easy to lose track of a dog in a sea of wolves." _I saw you_ _, little bird_. Sure as the night was long, surer than the burn of fire and the aching of men's hearts for home, warmth, and a woman — he'd seen her. More than anything, he'd seen her  _staring_ at him, eyes fixed on him dazedly, lost either to memory or disdain, or some wretched, truthful combination of both which formed a history that'd be lost to the living dead, soon enough.

"Tell me why you've avoided me." She returned, voice sleek as silk. Her steps remained purposeful in their grace while his stride paused momentarily, caught off-guard by the immediacy of her accusation, and all too tempted to bark and bite in return.

Sandor sighed; he knew this, like many moments in their shared past, would only lead to a disappointment on both ends. “Hasn’t your family been stolen from enough, little bird? Those moments weren’t meant to be shared with a _dog_ , and your wolf-girl sister would’ve slit my throat if I dared take the happy family reunion away from you lot.” He leaned against the wall, wishing desperately for a wineskin or a cloak, something to warm the air between them which now turned cold and unfeeling. "There's no place for me in all that mess." He looked away, unable to face her through his own admissions, while his words damned him halfway between truth and misery. 

“I don't believe you." Sansa countered as she halted her pace "You protected Arya all those years ago. You fought alongside Jon beyond the Wall, and traveled back to King’s Landing for _his_ Queen. You rode with them up until the point they arrived on Winterfell's grounds, and then you disappeared when you should've been welcomed properly.”

 _The Little Bird has lost her composure_ _,_ he thought,  _though surely it can't be over me._ Still, Sandor could not deny the slight catch of breathlessness in her voice, nor the way her words tumbled onto each other without precaution, and he wondered if he'd caused a crack in her ice-tipped facade.

“But you weren't.” 

The sharp glare of his eyes met the steadiness of hers and, for once, the stone was more cutting than the sword. “Aye, I wasn't,” he conceded.

“Did you expect you’d go _unnoticed_?” She asked, incredulous and incensed, brows furrowing at the notion as she stepped closer.

Sandor offered a hollow laugh, croaking with cynicism as he leaned towards her, taunting her with a snarl as he retorted, "Bloody tried, didn’t I?” He was daring her now, playing with fire as though he hadn't run from it all his life, endlessly fascinated by what distance he could reach without being burned — if only for her.

"When I was a little girl, you told me you'd never lie to me. I might have been stupid then, but I'm not now, and I know that a liar is still one even when he hides the truth in silence rather than in words." She paused and stepped closer to him, no longer sporting the fear which quickly became her armor in King's Landing. "A hound will die for you, but never lie to you."

It was  _this_ that he'd meant to keep away from, this meeting of past and present when there was no promise of the future. When he avoided her gaze, her hand, pale and smooth, reachedto gently tip his chin back towards her, one finger touching the burned ruin of his face. He flinched under her touch, as she might have done many moons ago, acting without a normal resolve, and turned his eyes up to her when she spoke again.

"And he'll look you straight in the face." Sansa repeated the words he'd once told her, eyes blazing in her search for reason. He knew that look — it was the same one she cast up towards the sky after Joff took her to see the decapitated head of her father, begging all the bloody gods for some semblance of an answer. _The truth had gotten her father killed,_ Sandor thought,  _and it'll do the same to me_. Reflexively, he attempted to look away once more, but the slim lengths of Sansa's fingers held his chin in place, while her other hand sneaked to poke him squarely at the notch at his neck, firm in her touch but not entirely unyielding. 

"I don't want a song, Sandor. Only the truth." Her voice seeped low and heady under his skin like a poison that left one loose-lipped and tongue-tied, hesitation and contemplation burying themselves beneath the press of her touch. He knew that once his piss-poor veil of refinement was lifted, whatever words he'd give her would damn him entirely.  _If I die, then maybe it's worth it anyway. Maybe none of it matters._

Sandor spoke at last, words steadfast and stony, too surprised by and starved for touch that he remained rigid even under hers. "S'pose I thought I might die before I needed to contend with the rest. When I walk out into that deep grey waste you love so much, I know what I'm walking into. I know what I'll be facing, what every man on the whole bloody buggering battlefield will face. I've already seen what every mother and child will fear until the moment it gets them and tears into their skin, feasts on their flesh and rips them limb from limb." The dog in him had meant to make her _flinch_ with those words, uncouth yet refined enough to mask his truth if only to know that she understood the gravity of the matter — but instead, she stared him down, eyes on him like a wolf stalking its prey. He didn't dare tremble in her presence, though his voice lowered several shades darker, the color existing on some plane in between menacing and mournful. "I know my death, Sansa. I know it's coming. Closer than any wretched time before." Sandor hung his head in irreverent resignation. His gaze followed suit as he rested on the silvery pale glow of her skin. Her hand at his neck, once so fearsome and deliberate, now mirrored the other in gentle harmony, as both hands rested on either side of his jawline, cradling his face with the mercy of the Mother.

"What good does it do me, to talk to you now?" He asked, voice broken and defeated. Seeing her alive was a poison-tipped blade, a bitter pill, a war of his own devising. "All I ever wanted was one happy memory, Sansa. One happy memory for when I die. But now, all I have is the knowledge that you'll remember me as some undead fucker coming for your throat."

He stared at her hard and long, drinking in the sight of her like she might be his last libation, smooth wine on the tongue with the harsh burn of whiskey at the throat. Her eyes glistened with tears; he had frightened her again, as he had always done in the past, and as he would likely do even after his death. 

"Go on. Leave me. I won't have you waste your last moments on a dead dog. And I won't condemn a dead dog to grieve over the little bird it never had."

Her tears fell unceremoniously and unbidden, streaking wet and hot down her face. He commended her, privately; never once did her gaze falter or look anywhere other than his own eyes of steel, as though she was daring him to put to memory this moment exactly: the last time he'd see Sansa Stark's face. Her hands remained at his jaw throughout it all, holding him in place through no rough force, but simply the tenderness of her touch. Of his own volition, Sandor leaned the burned side of his face into the palm of her hand, blinded by his own tears, which fell down the crooked length of his nose and onto her skin. Eyes still shut, he felt the grace of her lips on his temple as she placed a near-imperceptible kiss to his skin.

"They say you're supposed to spend your last moments with what makes you glad to be alive. I hope you find whatever that is, Sandor."

When he opened his eyes again, his sight was met by Sansa Stark, pale as snow, trembling as if she was walking to her death — as if she was staring it right in its eyes. Before she walked away, a moment's silence came over them both, silent despite the impending war, despite the fear of man and woman alike, despite the heavy, pounding beating of their hearts as they looked at each other in their imperfect peace.

On she walked, never once looking back. When he heard the Great Hall's doors shut, the footsteps of the little bird hidden away behind them, he slumped to the stone floor and cried. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I toyed around with this initial reunion being soft, smutty, hateful, sad...but none of those versions seemed to fit the story I've aimed to write, so I found the version that worked best for me was this attempt at a semi-role reversal of their Blackwater goodbye. Though I hadn't intended it, there is something bittersweet about this — which I know is something of a cursed term in the GoT / ASOIAF fandom. So, for this chapter, I suppose there's a heavier emphasis on the bitter, but with a promise of the sweet soon to come!
> 
> Also, this chapter was mostly written on redeye flights and at strange hours of the night, so I apologize for any errors or overall strangeness! I feel like all of my traveling over the past month has really thrown me off my writing game, and I'm certain I'll comb over this even after it's published and find little things to change. As always, feedback is very much appreciated. A tremendous thank you to everyone who has read, commented, and left kudos! xx


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